A Word A Day
by camiferz
Summary: D/E: If feelings could be put into words, theirs would be a dictionary. A collection of Delena one-shots, each set to one unique word. Words so far: Surprise, Pasta, and Dare
1. Surprise

**Surprise**

It's her birthday and everyone's in their absolute best.

So he dons a suit, but no tie.

After all this time, he no longer tries to fit himself into a cliché of "the perfect guy". It's because he knows she's not looking for perfection anyway. It's because he knows she values other things. She's not like other girls.

He knows _that _for sure.

His eyes sweep the room to catch a glimpse of her when he spots her descending the staircase. She's not in her usual jeans and Chuck Taylors, so he's pleasantly surprised.

She's flaunting an evening dress – soft and flowing – like what a girl would be comfortable in, like something she could dance in. It's the kind of dress that shows a little, but leaves him yearning for more. She knows he likes a flirt, a tease, yet she doesn't know that she, herself, _is one._

He takes a step forward, intent to have the birthday girl on _his_ arm tonight. But she's got a fill-in escort and with a polite smile in place, takes his arm instead.

His brows draw close and his jaw clenches. He's pondering whether or not he should still approach her then begrudgingly decides on the latter. The last thing he wants to do is spoil her night.

The party's pleasant. While people nibble on hors d'oeuvres, he nurses a glass of golden liquid.

The air ignites as they catch each other's stolen glances from across the room. He's trying to look impassive yet failing. He's pretending to pay attention to this flirty blonde though he clearly isn't.

He tries _so hard _to keep his eyes off her, but when he hears her silvery laugh, he knows it's futile.

He watches her dance, hooked on her every sway, her every turn. The dress is working him like a charm. And by the time the song ends, his feet are disobeying orders and he's headed towards her. He figures that he lost all rational thought, along with his better judgement, sometime during the chorus.

He loathes dancing. He _wouldn't_ dance for his life.

Yet with a strong hand firmly pushing the fill-in escort away, his steel-blue eyes are only for her.

"Do you mind?" he asks, but doesn't wait for the response.

With a graceful swoop, he has her in his arms, and they are in sync to the song's slow beat. Beneath a mastered look of genuine surprise, her eyes ask what took him so long.

He expects to be told off, _chided_ at the very least. But the night's just _full_ of surprises.

"Do I know you, sir?" she asks, a small smile playing upon her lips.

It's his turn to smirk.

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

* * *

><p><em>Disclaimer: I do not own The Vampire Diaries<em>

Feel free to leave a comment with suggestions for creative, intriguing _one-word_ chapter ideas! It will be greatly appreciated. :)

_**FOLLOW, FAVORITE, REVIEW! :)**_


	2. Pasta

**Pasta**

Elena had been staring at the television for hours on end, so relentlessly that the pictures on the screen were beginning to mesh into one pixelated blur.

A disheartened sigh escaped her lips as she fruitlessly flipped from one news channel to another. She was sitting tensely on the edge of the couch waiting for two telltale words to fall from a reporter's lips… _animal attack_. Keeping an eye out for a massive killing spree _most probably_ caused by her boyfriend was not the ideal way to spend a Saturday morning.

At the sound of a throat being cleared, she gave a little jump.

Damon was leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed. "Lunch," he stated simply.

Adamantly, Elena shook her head. "I can't eat, not until I-"

"Don't start… You have to eat _sometime_, Elena."

"I'm not hungry, Da-" she began, only to be cut off by a low grumbling sound.

'_Damn…'_ she thought.

Damon snickered. "Your stomach begs to differ."

Elena pouted stubbornly and tried once more to focus on the television.

At that, Damon let out a breath and strode towards her, taking her by the wrist and pulling her to her feet. "C'mon pouty. You're having authentic, home-cooked Italian pasta for lunch. I'm cooking so guaranteed, it'll be _irresistible_."

He waggled his brows and Elena groaned, yet she let Damon lead her to the kitchen all the same. With the voices of the news reporters fading into the background, she assured herself that she wouldn't miss much with just_ one_ plate of pasta.

Damon smirked at her reluctant compliance. "Like I said, this dish is irresistible. _Ir-re-sist-i-ble_." he enunciated slowly. "Or maybe it's just my _charm_ that's irresistible." He ran his hands under the tap then swung a towel over his shoulder.

Elena sat at the kitchen island, her head cradled in her hand and her fingers drumming against the marble countertop. "Trust me, it's the dish," she muttered. She watched Damon's practiced movements as he flipped the stove on, swiped a bottle of _olio d'oliva_ from the cupboard and drizzled a little into a saucepan.

Damon caught her intrigued gaze and raised a brow. "Make yourself useful, Gilbert," he chided, motioning to a knife then tossing her a tomato.

"Okay, I will," Elena replied, slightly irked by his condescending tone. She gathered her long, brown hair into a loose ponytail, pushed her sleeves up to her elbows then stuck her hands under the running water. She then grabbed the tomato, passed it to Damon, and took the wooden spoon from his hand. "You go chop over there, and _I'll _do the sauce."

"At your orders, chef!" Damon grinned.

* * *

><p>"<em>Finely<em> chop the onion, Damon… _finely_."

"It looks _fine_ to me!"

"I think the pasta's done."

"La pasta è pronta. C'è odore deliziosa."

"What?"

"Pasta's ready!"

"God, these tomatoes are beautiful."

"That's 'cause these aren't just tomatoes, they're Roma tomatoes, _Italian_ tomatoes."

"I get it Damon; you're Italian."

* * *

><p>Damon crossed his arms and turned towards the girl slaving over the stove. "So tell me, how did <em>you<em> end up cooking for _me_?"

Elena smirked at him then shrugged her shoulders. "You obviously have high standards for pasta. I just want to know an _Italian's_ honest opinion of my recipe."

Damon's eyes gleamed. "So basically...you think you can cook penne better than I can."

"I mean, I wouldn't brag..."

"Ha!" Damon hopped off the stool and stood behind Elena, inspecting her work. "Put your money where your mouth is." he drawled in a velvety voice.

Elena swirled around to find Damon dangerously close and the distance between their bodies virtually non-existent. She swallowed. The sexual tension was dizzying.

"Try me," she challenged, offering him the wooden spoon.

Damon glanced at the sauce-covered spoon then at the hand that held it up to him. Elena's knuckles were turning a ghostly white from the severity of her vice-like grip. With the full power of his steely, blue eyes not lost on her, he gently placed his hand over hers and lifted the spoon to his lips.

The flavor on his tongue sent him reeling. Damon subconsciously took a small step back to collect himself. He could _swear_ on his mother's grave that the taste was almost identical to the taste of a familiar old recipe… his _mamma_'s signature Penne All'Arrabiata. He ran his tongue over his upper lip in disbelief.

Elena held the dripping wooden spoon in midair as she looked at him expectantly.

"Well… how is it?"

"Honestly? It's… good, Elena." Damon said slowly, an incredulous smile curving his lips. "I hate to admit it but this is the best pasta I've had in a _long_ time."

She was positively glowing with pride.

"…could use a _little_ salt though," he gibed.

Elena rolled her eyes, shook her head and laughed. "Italians and their pasta…" she mumbled, turning back towards the stove.

Damon swallowed.

If the way to a man's heart was really through his stomach, Elena now had his _completely_ under siege.


	3. Dare

**Dare**

All Hallows Eve was _never_ a dull night in Mystic Falls, especially for Elena's circle of friends. Caroline Forbes made sure of that.

Two years ago, she _insisted_ they hold a "_Horror-Film Night"_. That was the year they huddled in the Forbes' damp, dimly-lit basement with sleeping bags, tubs of popcorn and stacks and stacks of the most spine-chilling movies. And these weren't the _stupid_ horror flicks with cheesy effects and fake-looking make-up. These were the _haunting _horror flicks, the ones that had Matt covering his ears, Bonnie severely clinging to her pillow and Caroline shrieking at the top of her lungs. No one slept a wink _that_ night.

Just last year, she played hostess for "_Fear-Factor-Food Night"_. That was the year Caroline catered a dinner that served an array of the most revolting dishes known to man. For starters, there was a plate of _Balut_, fertilized duck eggs with the embryos boiled alive. As a thirst quencher, there were cups of _Chicha_, a pale-yellow, milky drink from chewed up corn. And for dessert, _Mash Cones_, a _mashed_-potato-flavored ice cream topped with gravy-flavored syrup and half a Bratwurst sausage. Everyone threw up at least twice _that_ night. Tyler was hugging the toilet by his third spoonful.

Now this year, there's "_Dare Night", a_nother one of Caroline's brilliant ideas. Or rather, _attempts_ to alleviate the doom and gloom of late.

"God, this is stupid," Damon muttered swinging the flashlight from side to side.

"Slow down, Elena!" he called out, a hint of annoyance evident in his tone.

Elena groaned and tapped her foot impatiently on the damp soil. "Just my luck to get paired with Mr. Enthusiastic tonight."

"Hey! I wore that God-awful, frilly, pink skirt and paraded around town in it, didn't I?" he pointed out, reaching up and hoisting himself up the cement wall and over to the other side, where Elena stood, arms crossed, waiting.

"Eh, any guy would've done that," she waved a hand in the air dismissively.

Damon shook his head with a terse laugh. "You tough to please, you know that?"

"I'm… vaguely aware of it," Elena smirked, neatly sidestepping the various gravestones.

He ran a hand through his messy, raven locks then fell into step behind her. "So _why_ are we at a cemetery in the dead of night, again?"

Elena reached into her pocket then handed him a card with Caroline's careful script.

"Take a picture in an empty grave?" Damon whistled. "Okay, I'll say it… Caroline's _nuts_."

Elena slapped his arm with the back of her hand. "She's… _eccentric_," she reasoned, defending her best friend. "And stop stalling, Salvatore. I see an empty plot right over _there_."

The ground squelched with every step they took. That was one of the only sounds to be heard in the eerie, hallowed place. Damon began to feel like this night was going to end the way all horror movies end... badly. He gulped then crept to Elena's side. They were so close to each other, their shoulders were touching.

"You scared, Elena?" Damon whispered teasingly, leaning towards her to make scary noises in her ear. "It's perfectly fine if you are; I understand. Just don't worry your pretty little head about it, I'm right here. Feel free to bury your face in the crook of my neck, or grab fistfuls of my shirt, or squeeze my hand at any given moment."

"Wait, wait. Give me a second to let the pretentiousness waft over me." Elena scoffed, raising an incredulous brow. Damon offered her a sweet smile in return.

Both Damon and Elena knew that his was an empty suggestion anyway. After everything she'd been through in the past year, nothing this trivial could scare Elena Gilbert.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her place her hands on her hips and inspect the empty grave. The hole was dug to perfect size – 6 feet under, as per the standard requirement. Elena ran her tongue over her bottom lip in thought. She then turned to Damon and beckoned him towards the grave.

He gave her the classic 'you've got to be kidding me' look. "I'm… claustrophobic."

Elena reached into her pockets and pulled out a set of Caroline's cards. "Damon, I've done all of the challenges except that skirt thing and if I was a guy, I would've done that one too… Do you want to win this or not?" she sighed.

"Frankly, I don't _care_," Damon muttered bitterly.

Elena was slightly taken aback. In a way, she needed this Dare Night. Maybe she even needed this win because after her world tilting on its axis, she so badly needed to feel _daring_, to feel somewhat _in control_ of her own life. And she needed Damon to understand this.

She dropped the cards and squatted dejectedly on the ground. "Is this fun yet?" Her voice was brittle as glass.

Damon's chest tightened. So as always, he did what he could for her. So he jumped into the hole and landed squarely on the earth. He cringed, dusting the clumps of dirt off his hands. "Now, Elena. It's fun now!"

A slow smile formed on her lips. She stood up, bit her lip and peered into the hole.

"_There _she is," he breathed, "Now, please take the picture and spare me from walking amongst the living dead."

The telltale snap from Elena's phone was all he needed to hear.

Damon hauled himself out of the ditch and rolled his shoulders.

"Thank you, Damon," she whispered, looking down at his hands and dusting the dirt off of them.

"I really _am_ claustrophobic, you know… But I'll do whatever it is you need me to do, Elena."

She gave a small nod and a small smile. "I'm… vaguely aware of it."

"This is a great shot, by the way." Elena exhaled, showing him her phone. "I think I'll make this my new wallpaper."

Damon grinned.

"Oh but actually, I think _this_ one's much, much better."

Elena turned her phone towards him once more. The screen glowed with a picture of Damon, the goofiest grin on his face, in that God-awful, frilly, pink skirt.

"You. wouldn't._ dare_."


End file.
